


Tied to the Rocket

by meansgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, McShep Match Challenge 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney McKay meets John Sheppard in 1989, after which nothing is the same. Pre-series AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied to the Rocket

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written to fill the prompt "square peg" for the 2010 McShep Match challenge. 
> 
> Hopefully this formats well, as I imported it! Feel free to point out any weird format issues if you notice them.

I. A Surplus Reprieve

1989

Rodney McKay was twenty-two years old and stuck in California, possibly the most nonsensical place in the known universe, finishing his second doctorate at CalTech, an institution full of people he disliked even more than the stupid state of California.

"There are no seasons here," Rodney said into the pay phone, using the last of his calling cards to call Jeannie, who was busy doing whatever it was semi-normal people did after graduating high school at the ripe old age of seventeen.

"Meredith," Jeannie sighed. Rodney tried not to find her exasperation comforting. He could hear her eyes rolling when she said, "Go to the beach or something."

Rodney wrinkled his nose at the phone, "What  for ?"

Jeannie snorted on the other end of the line. Rodney wanted to tell her how unattractive that was but bit his tongue. If he annoyed her she would hang up and then he would be back at square one, hunkered down in the lab feeling sorry for himself and debating another all-nighter to avoid being home alone another night. It was depressing, Rodney thought, having your seventeen-year-old sister in Canada for a best and possibly  only friend. 

"You need to go out, Mer," Jeannie was saying. "Listen, I love talking about how lame you are and all but Jamie's here so I gotta go." 

Rodney sighed. "Fine, fine. Have fun, or whatever."

"Yeah Mer, love you too."

Rodney opened his mouth to maybe say he loved her back, or possibly ask after his mother, but Jeannie had hung up. He rolled his eyes and thunked the phone into its cradle before backing away from the phone bank. He had a choice. He could either go back upstairs and bully whoever had lab time right now into packing it in early, and then he could work all night, as per usual; or he could go home, which sounded like pure hell at this point;  or he could take Jeannie's idiotic suggestion and go to the beach, which he would probably hate.

Rodney's advisors had been giving him the "We Think You Might Be Working Yourself to Death and We Don't Want to Be Held Responsible For Your Nervous Breakdown" look, which meant he should probably take a weekend off before they started breathing down his neck, inspiring homicidal fantasies to go with the one about the Nobel and the other one about Bo Derek. 

So in the end he went home to change, stopped off at the drug store for sun screen and drove almost an hour in traffic to Santa Monica to attempt to enjoy the beach. He had almost started to like it, just a little, walking along the sand protected by massive amounts of SPF-150, when he happened into a volleyball game or, more precisely, into one of its players. He hit the sand with an "Oof", groaning at the unpleasant sensation of having the wind knocked out of him. "Ow."

"Shit! Sorry!" The guy who had accidentally tackled Rodney to the ground scrambled off him. Rodney squinted against the too-bright sun and made out a silhouette topped with either an odd headdress or the most unruly head of hair known to man. 

"Urgh." Rodney sat up. "Ouch." 

"I didn't see you there," the guy said. "You okay?"

"I'm..." Rodney took a quick inventory of himself and determined that he was in fact okay and that it was time to get away from the beach. It had been a horrible idea, going to the one place that had two out of Rodney's three most hated things. Add some refreshing and deadly lemonade and the day would be complete. "I'm fine. Sorry I interrupted your game. I'll just be leaving now."

And never coming to the beach again, because really what was Jeannie thinking? he added silently. 

"Oh." Volleyball guy rocked back on his heels. "Okay, then," he said, and extended his hand. 

Rodney allowed himself to be hauled up to his feet. He brushed away as much sand he could reach, and mentally cursed the grainy stuff which would no doubt be in the most unpleasant places later. God, he hated the beach. Maybe his advisors were right to be concerned. He was clearly having some sort of mental break, because a minute ago he had almost been fooled into enjoying sun and  sand \-- When a dry chuckle cut him off mid-rant, Rodney realized that he had actually been ranting  out loud . He looked up and blinked at his accidental attacker who, now that Rodney could see him, turned out to be a really attractive guy Rodney guessed to be around his own age. 

"I'm John Sheppard," he said while Rodney blinked at him. Rodney fumbled for something to say, but he was still trying to get all the sand off. Sheppard watched him swipe his hands over his shorts and smirked. "Hey, I'm actually gonna take off too. You should let me buy you a drink or something since I almost killed you and all."

"I doubt I was in any danger of dying," Rodney retorted, then caught himself. "Sorry. I'm Rodney. McKay. Doctor. Doctor Rodney McKay."

Sheppard raised his eyebrows but didn't ask the usual  Aren't you a little young to be a doctor? question. Instead he nodded once and said, "Nice to meet you. Wait here."

Then he jogged away from Rodney, presumably to say goodbye to his volleyball friends. Rodney watched him run back over, frozen in place and a little dumbfounded. John Sheppard was very tan and very fit, and his hair was unlike anything Rodney had ever seen. He wondered if Sheppard always looked freshly electrocuted and whether the fact that Rodney found that look weirdly attractive said anything significant about Rodney's own psyche. He also wondered what he was doing, waiting here and thereby tacitly agreeing to let Sheppard buy him a drink "or something."

Once he had said goodbye to his equally tan-and-fit friends, Sheppard led the way up the incline to the driftwood steps heading off the beach. Rodney automatically took note of the tiny details about him: a set of dog tags around his neck, no tan lines on his torso, blue swimming trunks, a pair of leather flip-flops dangling from his fingertips. Disturbingly Vulcan ears.

"So, uh..." Rodney grasped for something to say. "Are you from here?"

"My mother's family is," John replied in an easy drawl that worked with the whole beach bum look, simultaneously grating on Rodney's nerves and lulling him with the laid back  whatever dripping from every syllable. "My grandmother's house is here, I'm staying in it for the summer."

"You're-- That is are--are you on leave?" Rodney stumbled over the question, gesturing awkwardly at the tags, not sure if it was appropriate to be asking, but Sheppard just grinned at him. 

"Yeah, I am for now. Kind of." They reached a parking lot and Sheppard spread out his arms and asked, "So where to?"

*

They ended up sitting at a metal table outside some off-the-beach bar. Sheppard ordered them each a Molson and Rodney gave in to the urge to voice his relief at an actual decent choice of beer, and to state his contempt for the watered-down swill that usually passed for beer in the States. Sheppard made listening noises and bit down on a smile. Rodney actually stopped ranting, he was so surprised that Sheppard seemed to find it  amusing . Before the waitress came for their order, John gave Rodney a quick once-over and said, "Wait--you are old enough to drink, right?"

Cursing his stupid curly hair and his stupid baby face--it was the cheekbones, everyone always said--Rodney scowled. "Yes, thank you very much. I'm Canadian, so in  my country I've been legally able to buy alcohol for four years."

"You look kind of young, is all." Sheppard shrugged. "So if you're twenty-two, how long have you been a doctor?"

Rodney had to wait for the waitress to take their order before he answered, and then he said, "I finished my first doctorate last year and I'm about to complete my second. Mechanical Engineering and Astrophysics. I started university when I was fifteen, in case you were wondering."

Sheppard gave a low whistle. "That's pretty intense shit, McKay. I only just finished my undergrad."

"Really?" Rodney leaned forward, wondering if this bit of information would reveal Sheppard's flaw. Everyone had at least one fatal flaw that put them in the "Not Worth the Effort" column on the list Rodney kept in his head. "I suppose you majored in English or something equally asinine."

John smirked at him and shrugged oh-so-casually. "Double major in mathematics and applied physics." He looked up from where he was toying with a cocktail napkin and quirked an eyebrow. "Actually."

"Oh," Rodney said intelligently, and then their beers arrived.

*

Rodney hung out with John for the rest of the day. By the time the sun went down, Rodney had scarfed down three hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier, and Sheppard had tried to coax him into riding the Ferris wheel.

"Absolutely not, no way. I will vomit."

Sheppard pouted at him in a very persuasive way, but only said "What if we come back another time? Will you go on it with me then?"

Rodney was caught off guard. It had been strange enough for Sheppard to invite him for a drink, but even stranger was the fact that Sheppard had wanted to keep hanging out after that. Rodney didn't make friends easily. He had been in the academic world since the age of fifteen, so he had never had age-appropriate peers. Also, according to Jeannie, he could be "kind of a tool" which Rodney couldn't exactly disagree with since people just didn't seem to  like him. But Sheppard did. Sheppard laughed when Rodney went off at the mouth, cracking up before Rodney even had time to realize he was ranting and, if past experience was anything to go by, ruining any chance he had at a good impression.

Even more unusual was the fact that Rodney liked John right back, and Rodney rarely liked anyone. Jeannie often told him that this was a side effect of being kind of a tool, but the truth of the matter was that most people were just too stupid. John didn't seem stupid--hello, math and applied physics -- and he was funny in an obnoxious way. He liked sci fi and video games, and those topics alone had eaten up a good two hours of time while they wandered Santa Monica. Rodney wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he might have just made an actual  friend .

John bought a huge puff of cotton candy and they shared it while they watched the Ferris wheel. He told Rodney all about flying, how it was awesome, how he loved it, how a Ferris wheel was the next best thing on the ground, while the sun went down and the lights on the wheel buzzed on, lighting up their faces in green and yellow and orange.

*

After that, John seemed to have decided that Rodney was his new sidekick, because he would call in the morning and say, "You busy?" and then ask Rodney to go do something completely ridiculous like  hiking .

"Yes, of course I'm busy," Rodney said every time. Then he would pause, considering his schedule, his bare refrigerator, and his willingness to endure an endless stream of idiocy that day and ask, "Why?"

Sheppard told him whatever plan he had in mind, and Rodney refused. Sheppard wheedled and then promised beer or food or tossed out something like, "We can go see Back to the Future II after!"

"Absolutely  not , I hated the first one!"

"How can you hate Back to the Future?"

"Easily! The very concept is completely rid--"

"Indiana Jones then," John interrupted. "C'mon McKay, you know you want to."

"Why not just the movie? No hiking or, or parasailing or cliff diving."

"Cliff diving?"

"I wouldn't put it past you."

Sheppard laughed, rattled off a time and said, "I'll pick you up." 

*

John only talked Rodney into hiking once, but was never stupid enough to suggest parasailing or cliff diving. He did get Rodney to do things that weren't quite so outdoorsy, which Rodney never would have done on his own. He had been in California for almost a year and had only really been to his apartment, his lab, and various diners and coffee shops in between. 

The Mathematica exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry held Rodney's attention for most of their visit there, which was fine because John seemed just as excited about it. Rodney didn't care for the zoo, but the Griffith Observatory was  awesome . 

"I can't believe you've never been here," John said, rocking up on the balls of his feet, restless, in front of the Tesla coil.

"Yes well, I'm busy  doing physics, so coming to look at plaques about it is kind of redundant, don't you think?"

"You liked the star show, though."

"Well, obviously."

*

"You ever want to be an astronaut, McKay?"

Rodney peeled at the label on his beer and rolled his eyes at the waves of ocean washing up on the beach. "Well, yeah."

"Me too," John said, a little dreamily. Rodney looked over at him. John was lounging back on his elbows, head tilted to the sky. "That's gotta be, you know-- awesome . The only thing that could be better than flying is flying in space."

"Are you a pilot?" Rodney felt like a jerk for not knowing the answer to that, but he and Sheppard hadn't really talked about their lives in the weeks since they met. Rodney ranted about his colleagues yes, but never felt the need to share any personal history. John didn't, so Rodney didn't. But something as basic as what Sheppard  did was something Rodney should probably have known.

John grinned and stretched. "Not yet, but I will be."

"Oh?"

"Flight school starts in about a month."

"Oh," Rodney said again, biting at the inside of his cheek. He hadn't meant to sound so disappointed. "I mean. That's great. So you're going to where, Texas?"

"Mm," John nodded. "One year and it's official, it's for real. I get my wings. Pretty cool."

"It is pretty cool," Rodney agreed. He shoved his half empty beer bottle down into the sand next to him and mimicked John's posture, leaning back on his forearms. "I guess I figured you were fairly intelligent but... Now I suppose I'm somewhat impressed."

Next to him, John laughed his weird, honking laugh and shook his head in Rodney's peripheral vision. "Yeah, I'm fairly intelligent. I was in AFROTC at Virginia Tech, got commissioned after graduation."

"Wow," Rodney looked away from Sheppard's very attractive face, which had somehow gotten even more so now that Rodney was aware of how ridiculously smart and capable he really was. Not that he hadn't figured as much already. "Well. Congratulations, I suppose." 

"Hey, Rodney?"

Rodney sighed heavily and messed with the neck of his beer bottle, twisting it to drive it deeper into the sand beside him, before turning to look at John, who had moved closer -- really close. Rodney wasn't sure how he'd missed it, but suddenly there was John, his nose inches from Rodney's. "Yeah?"

John tilted his head forward, bringing their noses almost tip-to-tip, and if Rodney just mirrored the movement their foreheads would touch. His breath caught in his chest. This was new. This was good, he could maybe work with this. "You could, you know--" John's voice dipped lower, "write me. If you wanted."

"Dear John letters?" 

John huffed and scooted just a fraction closer. "Yeah, sure."

Rodney nodded quickly, catching himself before he could thunk John in the head with his skull. "I can do that."

"Okay," John said, and then he moved the last inch forward to brush his mouth up against Rodney's. 

"Isn't this--" Rodney cleared his throat and drifted back, just enough to get a little air between them. "Isn't this against, whatever, regulations or something?"

John shrugged and closed the distance again. "Rodney?"

Feeling like his head was full of air, or no--the cotton candy they had eaten weeks ago on the pier, all sticky and air-spun, clinging and sickly sweet--Rodney managed a distracted, "hmm" with John's mouth just this side of too close to his own to be sensible.

"I won't tell if you won't."

Rodney nodded, or tried to, but it was hard with John's tongue already slipping past his lips, and John's hand against his neck, his thumb pressed to Rodney's jaw just a little, the fingers of his other hand slipping under the hem of Rodney's t-shirt, effectively changing absolutely everything.

*

Like their pasts and families, they just didn't talk about it. They were fast friends and faster lovers. The countdown was on, and trips around SoCal were a thing of the past. It was as though the two of them were making an attempt at some sort of record. Rodney was pretty sure no one had ever had so much sex in so many ways or in so many places. He certainly hadn't; he may not have been a virgin before he met John, but since the first time with Marcy Gill in his dorm room his senior year at Northeastern (he had been 18, she 22 and a little too gleeful about "punching his v-card") he had been just a little  busy , what with working up the ranks of young, ambitious geniuses in world academia. So really, other than two very brief flings with women he probably couldn't fairly label girlfriends, and countless ill-advised entanglements with male colleagues, Rodney's sexual history was embarrassingly sparse. That changed fast.

John liked to let himself into Rodney's apartment with the key Rodney kept under the mat for nights when he stumbled out of the lab without his keys in pocket. He would slam the door, so that Rodney would jerk awake in his bedroom or, if he was already up, flail his way right out of his desk chair. Then John would pick him up, or come flying down the little hallway and into Rodney's room. One way or another Rodney, morning mouth and all, would on occasion find himself pressed down and pinned by long, tanned limbs and John's searching mouth. 

Before the first time that happened, Rodney hadn't ever had sex in a bed in the morning, and he'd never fucked a man before. The first time John woke him up with the slam of the front door, they made out hot and heavy for what felt like forever, all hot and close under Rodney's ratty quilt, before John pulled back and said "You have lube, right?"

Rodney had stammered and fumbled and fretted over everything until finally John shoved him flat on his back and climbed on top of him, finishing what Rodney had started with his own slick fingers.

"Sweet jesus, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen," Rodney panted from under him, and John looked down, grinned and gave him a look that said  Watch this . 

Then he rolled a condom over Rodney's impossibly hard cock, and without a word reached back and positioned Rodney at his hole before sliding down, inch by hot, slow,  amazing inch.

"Fuck, Rodney."

"You have that backwards," Rodney managed, practically hysterical by then as John settled, muscles clenching around Rodney's dick, sending Rodney's eyes rolling back. John let out a low laugh and fisted himself in one hand, still shiny with lube. "No, no, that's my job--" Rodney smacked John's hand away and replaced it with his own, trying to find a counter-rhythm to the movement of John's hips, the cadence of his body squeezing so fucking  unbelievably  tight. John made sounds which, once Rodney figured out how to thrust up and meet him, turned hotter and more desperate until  God, finally or maybe too soon, John froze, spasming and coming in hot drops all over Rodney's chest. 

"God, god, god," Rodney chanted, wishing he could hold off and make it last longer, get John on his back and fuck him like this, loose-limbed and sated. It was a nice thought, but Rodney was coming before John was even through the aftershocks, yanking John's hips down and holding him there, pushing up hard and saying absurd, nonsensical things.

*

Nine days before John was due to close up his grandmother's house and leave for Texas and everything he'd ever wanted, Rodney's father called. Technically, he had called the day before, but Rodney had been at John's, where he spent most of his time these days. Rodney came back to his dusty apartment and found the battered answering machine blinking a message, which was unusual. When he hit play and heard his father's voice on the tinny recording, the strange factor raised considerably--and then he caught on to what the message said.

"My mother died," Rodney said into the phone, gripping it tight, white knuckled with one hand, stretching the cord to its limit to reach for clothes off the floor and throwing them into a duffel bag.

"What? Rodney I'm--" John sounded surprised and awkward and unsure. "I'm sorry, I'm really--"

"She had cancer," Rodney said, absently shoving several pairs of balled-up socks into the bag. He abandoned the packing and turned to his overflowing sink, which he had left that way the last time he was in the apartment almost a week before. "It's not-- I'm not shocked, it's just... I have to go to Canada. Obviously."

"Your mother had cancer." John said, a little flat and a lot disbelieving. "You never said."

"Sorry," Rodney murmured, squirting dish soap over the pile of crusted dishes and turning on the water. "I don't know, I guess I forgot." He winced. That was a stupid thing to say. What kind of asshole "forgot" about his mother's cancer? Rodney hadn't forgotten, he had just let himself ignore it while he worked like an automaton and then while he ran around Los Angeles with his boyfriend or whatever John was. 

"You..."John paused, the sound of his breath loud in Rodney's ear. "Okay. Do you need anything?"

Rodney switched off the water and rested his forehead against a cabinet door. "No, I don't think so. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon. I should probably clean this place up or something, I don't know."

John didn't say anything on the other end of the line, and for a few drawn-out moments neither did Rodney. He tried to time his breathing to match with John's, but something in his chest kept fucking it up, making his lungs hitch and struggle to do what they should have done automatically.

"I'm coming over."

Rodney pushed off the counter, nodding. "Yes, okay. Please. Thank you. I'll see you--" 

John said, "Just--don't thank me, Rodney. Get out of the kitchen and sit down. I'll be there in half an hour."

And then he hung up. Rodney stood there with the phone in his hand, staring at the disaster of his kitchen and picturing, for a minute, the one in the house where he had grown up. It had yellow linoleum floors and avocado green aluminum cabinets. His mother had stenciled poppy-colored flowers around the drawer pulls. They moved out of that house when Rodney was fourteen, the year before he got himself emancipated and two before he went to Boston. He hung the phone back in its cradle, finally, and blinked the memory away. 

*

"I won't be here when you leave," Rodney muttered against John's neck. It was an awkward hug, considering the three heavy bags over his shoulders. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," John said, easy as he ever was, but gentle. His hand gripped the back of Rodney's neck and he pulled back, guiding Rodney until their foreheads touched. 

"I'm not sorry for  you , idiot." Rodney pulled back, "I'm sorry for me. I hate everything. I hate my father and Canada, and I hate California. I hate  you a little, and Texas, and fucking Edwards. He'll probably steal half my work while I'm away, and when I get back you'll be gone."

Rodney didn't say:  I hate my mother because she died without warning me first. I hate my sister for needing me. I hate funerals. I barely knew either of my parents, please come with me.

John snorted and ruffled a hand through Rodney's hair, stopping with his fingers tangled in it at the back of Rodney's head. "Everything will be okay. I'll write you a letter as soon as I get to San Antonio."

Rodney nodded and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Good. Okay. I--"

\--love you?  No. \--miss you already?  Can't say that. \--wish you didn't want to fly so god damned much?  Not true .

"I guess I'll see you later," he finished. John smiled and nodded. 

"See you, Rodney." 

*

Canada sucked, and everything about the funeral measured up to Rodney's grim expectations, but when he finally got back to L.A. two weeks later, there was a letter from John mixed in with the junk mail. Other than two collect calls placed from Jeannie's room while she was somewhere suffering through Aunt Edna's endless bitching, Rodney hadn't talked to John at all since leaving. The last call, the night before John was scheduled to fly out to Texas, had lasted two hours and probably ran John's phone bill into the stratosphere but it had been too hard to hang up. 

"What're you gonna do without me, McKay?" John had wanted to know, his nasal voice sarcastic over the line, his missing facial expressions making Rodney wonder if he really wanted to know or if it was just teasing. He had never been good at parsing these things in person -- the phone really wasn't Rodney's strong suit. 

Rodney went for the middle ground and scoffed. "Maybe get something done finally, hm? I'll have you know you took up a lot of valuable lab time. I may never win the Nobel thanks to your evil, distracting ways." 

"In that case maybe I should let you go. Discoveries to make, peons to berate?"

"Don't be stupid, I have no peons, especially not in Canada. Except maybe for my sister and she's the worse peon ever."

John chuckled, "I'll sorta miss you, Rodney."

"Yeah," Rodney sighed. "I'll miss you too. I guess."

"Never, ever change."

"I don't think I could if I tried."

John changed the subject and Rodney stretched out on Jeannie's flowered bedspread to listen. Somewhere in his considerable brain, he calculated up all the little ways he already had changed, and how ruined it was all going to be when he left Canada for a Sheppard-less California.

*

Rodney,

Letter number one. I just got to San Antonio. Seriously I just did, I'm writing this in the back seat of a cab. Sorry about the smudges.

You'd have hated the flight. Lots of crying babies, and the guy next to me was a linguist. I thought he was pretty interesting, but it would've been more fun if you had been there to hate him. You probably would have liked the food though, you freak. 

I'll send this from a P.O. box, but you'll want to send letters to the base. I wanted to get this one to you from off-base though, because I have to tell you something. I got you a present. It's under your bed, in a shoebox behind the stack of Playboys you think are really well hidden. Perv. Anyway, I want you to use it. You can't tell me about it, which sucks, but I'll know which is pretty cool. 

How should I sign this thing? Maybe I could spray it with some cologne. Next time. 

XXXXXXX

John

*

Rodney wiggled back out from under the bed sneezing, shaking dust bunnies out of his hair and clutching the nondescript shoebox that hadn't been there before. He yanked off the lid and gaped at its contents.

"Holy  crap ," He breathed, and pulled from a nest of tissue paper the most realistic-looking dildo he had  ever seen. Okay, the  only one he had ever seen. He felt his face go red, and thought  I will never use that even as he stowed it in his nightstand along with the lube and condoms. 

*

Letter number seven.

Dear John,

I still think that's funny. Dear John. You probably don't. You're probably annoyed. Ha! 

Sorry this one is late, I was in the hospital. Don't freak out. It was just a little anaphylactic shock. Yes, that waitress at the diner on the corner put lemon in my water. I thought that by now, having frequented that place for over a year, and having told her no less than thirty times NO LEMON, she would have the mental capacity to -- I don't know NOT PUT LEMON IN MY FUCKING WATER -- but no. I swear half the world is tragically brain damaged. Anyway, it's fine. Edwards, that prick, was there and he knows how to use an epi pen. Allergic to bees. I'm surprised the bastard bothered. I figured if anyone was likely to let me die citrusy death on the floor of a greasy spoon, it's Edwards. Now that he's "saved my life" he seems to think we're friends or something. At least he expects me to share lab time. As if.

Anyway, I'm not dead but I guess I almost was. Maybe cliff diving isn't such a bad idea? Considering the fact that I am apparently more likely to meet my end at the hands of Mandi the waitress than at the bottom of some canyon, that is. Next time you ask, I'll go. Just promise me that if I plummet to my splattery death you will tell my sister it happened while I was attempting to do something unbelievably heroic like saving an endangered dodo bird. I'm sure you'll think of something.

Did you know there are five and a half donut shops within ten miles of my apartment? I looked it up in the phonebook and cross-referenced with a map. I don't count that place with the creepy mascot as an actual donut shop, hence the half. Anyway, I'm thinking of becoming a donut connoisseur. I could write a book about it. I would be abandoning my scientific career which, as you know, is a tragic prospect. The thing is, I have a feeling the occupation of donut connoisseur involves less contact with complete IDIOTS. You would not BELIEVE what happened last Tuesday before the whole lemon thing-- (over)

*

Rodney,

What is this, number eight? Can we stop numbering yet?

Don't die. I never tried to make you go cliff diving. I don't think dodo birds are an actual thing. If you eat all those donuts you will have a heart attack and die. See the beginning of this letter. Don't kill the people you work with. You won't do well in prison. You're too mouthy. 

Five pages is not a letter, Rodney. It's a novel.

I flew today and yes, in case you're wondering, it was awesome.

John.

*

Rodney wrote letter twenty-three at four in the morning on a Saturday. 

#23

Dear John,

I know I'm not supposed to say these things in these letters "just in case" but,

I miss you.

This sucks.

I hate California and everybody here.

Thanks for ruining my life by making it semi-interesting. Now that you're gone everything is stupid and boring. I don't know what's so great about the Air Force, anyway. You could've been a pilot without joining with the American fucking military, you know. You could have moved to Canada with me and joined the RCAF. They won't ask you who you're fucking.

You left your blue shirt here and it smells like you.

He ripped it to shreds, disgusted, and started over. He folded six pages on In and Out vs. Jack In The Box, stuffed them in an envelope, stamped it and dropped it in the mailbox the next day.

*

The thing was, Rodney figured out seven months and thirty letters after John ran off to be a big shot pilot, it was pointless. Rodney had written twenty of those thirty letters. John had written ten, one every week for the first five weeks, and then five more over as many months. For a while, Rodney told himself it was just John being John, laconic even in written form. But that probably wasn't it, Rodney had to admit eventually. The truth was, he realized, that something had changed once John left. Rodney knew, objectively, that their letters had to have a certain controlled tone, a certain edited nature, just in case someone got curious or accidentally read one of them. But John's short letters were so obviously lacking in any kind of feeling at all. What did it matter if John wrote Rodney something a little risky? Couldn't he find five minutes alone to ask if Rodney ever used his present? A little dirty talk to hold them over? It wasn't like there were any aspiring airmen around to read John's letters to Rodney once they were safely in the mail. But no, his letters were never more than a page or two, and never told Rodney anything beyond how training was going. Sometimes John referred to something Rodney had written, but that happened less as the months wore on.

Rodney didn't use the gift, too lonely or not lonely enough, too mad at John or maybe just put off by the plastic fakeness of it. He threw it away the day he received letter thirty from John. 

It had been a joke, something he thought would crack John up. Rodney had pictured John's mouth curving into a smile, his eyes crinkling as he tried not to laugh, his shoulders shaking as he read the letter from "Meredith", on pink perfume-scented stationary. Rodney had driven all the way to Santa Clarita in the name of comedy, to mail the purple envelope from a different postal code. 

The letter he got back, unnumbered, had said "Not funny, McKay," and was unsigned.

Rodney stewed over it for three weeks. Then, pissed off and gripping the pen with angry vengeance, he didn't bother to number letter thirty-one. Rodney didn't even know what he was writing while he wrote it, but in the end it was one page, single-sided and said something along the lines of "Hey, I met someone. She's a masters student, reasonably intelligent, great tits." He kept the tone similar to every letter John had written him; it was a letter to a buddy, nothing more. "I think she might be the one," Rodney wrote. He mailed it off on his way in to the labs and tried not to think about it. 

He did think about it for awhile. Just who did John Sheppard think he was dealing with? Who was John-fucking-Sheppard to assume Rodney was willing to sit around, passing the time with stupid jokes about Meredith-the-girlfriend while John did who knows what with who knows  who and refused to play along with the joke? Rodney decided he'd had it with John Sheppard, who was starting to become a slick, sunglass-wearing flyboy with a shitty attitude in Rodney's head. He had let his work slip, and for what? For nothing.

He checked the mail obsessively for a month, two, three. After four months, he had almost forgotten to look for John's return address in the jumble of envelopes; Rodney was getting more of those, beginning to outnumber the junk mail. Job offers. Paychecks for consulting he did here and there. He finished his doctorate and accepted a position with NORAD. He published and published and published. John's flight school graduation date came and went without Rodney's notice, and without a letter. 

Well, Rodney figured once he remembered to think about it again, that was that.

II. It's Become My Engine 

1993

John watched from the jeep window as desert rolled by, a blur of burnt orange against the stark blue of the sky. This would be his last look at the Saudi desert which most guys would be pretty thrilled about.

John was thrilled about it, of course he was. He was going home, to the States, to Virginia, to his fiancée. He was done with the Middle East, that’s what he told Nancy. Because no man in his right mind would keep asking to be sent, not when he’d spent a good chunk of the previous two years jumping from one desert assignment to another, and definitely not when he had a pretty girl and a stateside posting just waiting for him back home.

It was, surprise surprise, a scorcher. Sweat beaded and slid down the back of John’s neck. He swiped at it with his hand and squinted, trying to make out something, anything in the endless miles of sand. 

“You and your girl set the date?”

John forced his attention to the jeep’s driver, Martinez, who he only vaguely knew. “Next year sometime,” he answered. “She’s handling all that stuff.”

Martinez gave a short laugh. “I hear that. You just show up on time, take her on that honeymoon. Make it happen, brother.”

Slipping his sunglasses on before turning to look at the guy, Sheppard made a vague noise of agreement. “Right. Sure.”

*

John was a pilot, which was pretty much everything he had ever wanted almost his entire life. It was just...not wrong, exactly. A shock, maybe. He got his wings, spent what felt like 15 minutes doing advanced training and test flights in Texas, and then out of nowhere he was being called up to scatter bombs over Iraqi airfields. 

It wasn't what he had expected. Somehow, the abstract notion of war hadn't really factored in to John's teenage fantasies. Of course it hadn't. He just wanted to fly, and serve his country. His father hadn't understood it, and still didn't. It wasn't a gentleman's profession, joining the military. Not to Patrick Sheppard, anyway. John had stopped arguing before he even left for college; he was going to do what he was going to do and he was going to do it with a smile on his face -- that fuck-you grin that drove his father to drink. His grades had earned him a full ride, so he was doing it without any of his father's money and therefore didn't have to answer to the old man when it came to decisions about what to do with his education, or how to choose his career. 

Just after John graduated from flight school, Dave had been heading off to Yale to study business, so their father got at least one golden boy out of his pair of sons, and the heat was off of John until the war was officially declared. That was when the rounds of "I-told-you-so" began. While his father glared at him over a tumbler of scotch, John thought  Oh shit, it's not supposed to be like this .

*

"It's not supposed to be like this."

"Nancy, it'll all work out. You'll see, I'll be back in--"

"In no time, John. I heard you the first three times!" 

John reached for her but she jerked her hand away. "They'll hear us," he murmured.

"Good," Nancy spat. "You know, John. If you didn't want to get married I don't know why you proposed. I didn't pressure you, did I? No. I didn't. You're the one who came up with that story about our future, about settling down. That was three years ago, John. First Somalia, then back to the Middle East and now? Now you want to run around training to do God knows what and I'm supposed to--What? Just wait for you?"

"I meant what I said about the future. Nancy, I did," John said, knowing he wasn't doing this right. He didn't sound as sorry as he should. Inside the house, his father was laughing at something, presumably told to him by Nancy's father whose chuckle followed. John could picture them elbowing each other in there, congratulating each other on their success as fathers and men over their drinks. "I did," he murmured.

"Then stop this and marry me, or go away and risk your life and call it off. Make a decision, John." 

*

1994

So he married Nancy; taking a stateside assignment, buying a house and a sensible car, getting home in time to take his wife to dinner and watching the game in the den on Sundays with her girlfriends' husbands. For a year, it worked. And then, it didn't work. John was twenty-seven and he was Captain Sheppard now, still being offered the extra training, still eligible to go Special Ops and do the kind of things that would mean too much moving around and way too much risk for someone who was supposedly ready to be a family man. Nancy wanted kids, but the baby thing hadn't happened and it kept not happening. John brought up adoption even as something in his head screamed at him to  shut the fuck up! but Nancy wanted a baby, their baby, and she was starting to talk about seeing some specialist.

John was more or less terrified ninety percent of the time. So he signed himself up to go to Florida for six months for training. Nancy still wasn't speaking to him, right up till the day he left. When he arrived home it was late summer, hot and muggy in Virginia. It was late at night and Nancy was asleep in their bed, her glasses on and a book spread open on her chest. He took her glasses off, soft and silent, then reached for the book. Nancy opened her eyes and reached for him whispering, "John."

He made love to her, and in the morning she said, "I can't do this with you anymore." 

John was in the kitchen drinking his coffee while he paged through the newspaper, just turning the pages without really reading. He froze at the sound of her voice in the doorway. He didn't have to ask what she meant; he knew, and had known this was coming for awhile. "Okay."

"John. I'm telling you I want a divorce."

He looked up from his coffee, pushing the mug around and widening the ring of spilled brown liquid underneath. She looked wrecked, angry and devastated. He felt the familiar stab of guilt in his sternum, knowing he made her look like that, just like he did when he put off marrying her, every time he went away, failed to want a family with her. "I know what you're telling me."

"God," Nancy choked back a sob. John hated himself more than he had ever hated himself before that moment. "Do you care?"

"I--" John looked away from her wet face and sighed. He probably ought to have gotten up, gone to her, done anything but nothing. But all he could say was, "I'm sorry."

" Fuck you, John," Nancy said, like a punch to the gut. Then the front door slammed, and John was alone.

*

"I'm sorry," Rodney snapped into the phone, pushing away from his desk with a hard shove. "You're doing  what ?"

Over the line, Jeannie sighed at him. "You heard me, Meredith. I said, I'm getting married."

"To  who ?" Rodney demanded, jerking to his feet and steadying the cradle before it could go careening onto the floor. He stretched the cord as far as he could, crossing to his office window to check on the activity in the lab beyond. 

"To Kaleb. My  boyfriend . We've been dating for three years, Meredith,  really ."

"You haven't even finished your doctorate!" Rodney banged a fist against the window, catching the attention of his idiot minions. He pointed a finger at one in particular, one of the newer ones who couldn't find his own ass with a map and a compass, let alone keep it together enough not to blow them all to kingdom come. Rodney shook his head sharply and the minion, whatever his name was, set the device Rodney had been working on back where it belonged.

Jeannie was sighing at him again and saying, "I also said that we were waiting. We've set the date for July; I'll have finished my degree by then."

"Oh, really?" Rodney narrowed his eyes until his underlings got a clue and went back to work. "And then what, hm? You're settling, and it's stupid."

"Meredith--"

"Are you pregnant?"

"What? No! Damn it, Mer--"

"Because if you are--first of all, you're an idiot. Second of all, that's no reason to run off and get married."

Jeannie didn't say a word. Rodney could hear her breathing, unsteady and ragged. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, resting one hand against the glass separating him from the lab. He  really needed to get back in there. "Jeannie--"

"Shut up, Mer," Jeannie said, low and pissed. "Come to the wedding or don't. I...I care, but I won't fight you on this. Mom and Dad are  gone , do you get that? You're the only family I'd have at my wedding and, I don't know, I thought you would be happy for me."

"Exactly what part of you throwing away your entire career would make me happy? Would make Mom and Dad happy? Jeannie, this is--"

"No," Jeannie yelled, and something crashed close to the phone. Rodney guessed she must have slammed it against something. "You don't have a  clue  what our parents wanted for me. You weren't around! You checked out of our lives after Mom, and you barely even showed up to Dad's funeral. Don't you  dare \--"

"I don't have time for this--"

" You never do . Don't bother, Mer. Just. Don't."

There was a click, and then after a moment, a mechanical voice suggesting he hang up, so Rodney did. He lingered over the handset for a moment, wondering if he should pick it up and dial his sister's number, but he realized he hadn't memorized it and didn't keep a record of it in his office. Anyway, he had work to do, so he left the phone and returned to the lab, waging unholy warfare on the idiots who had most likely ruined everything in the few minutes he was gone.

*

1995 

Nancy kept the house because John didn't want it. He signed the papers across the table from her and was officially unmarried. Their lawyer--they didn't need two, since John didn't want anything and she wasn't asking for alimony--left them alone with a snap of her briefcase. 

"Did you love me?"

John sighed and rubbed at his eyes, "What are you talking about?"

"You can't answer that question, can you?"

And she was just  sad when John wished she would hate him and wished he could hate her. But Nancy had been his best friend, had written him letters and taken his middle-of-the-night sorry-it's-so-late phone calls from this or that base in this or that far away place. He did love her, didn't he? Or at least he liked her more than he liked anyone else. Wasn't that enough?

"It just," he said, haltingly. "It wasn't--"

"Not it, John,  me . You and me, we weren't ever going to be--"

"Enough," John said, and she left without touching him, without looking back.

*

"So..." Rodney hovered in the doorway of Dr. H. Coyne's bedroom, one hand clutching his shoes and the other lingering on the doorknob. "Thanks."

Dr. Coyne, whose first name Rodney had never learned -- he thought it might be something like Harold -- took a last drag from his cigarette before stamping it out in the ashtray on the night table. "Sure, Dr. McKay. Any time."

Rodney did his best not to roll his eyes. Coyne probably thought the whole curling-smoke-and-slow-smirk thing was devastatingly attractive and coy. It wasn't; it was just silly, and Rodney had seen that smirk done right, on a much more attractive face. 

He managed to keep his expression mostly under control and backed out of the room with a wave, deciding in the back of his mind that he needn't bother learning the idiot's name. Giving decent blowjobs didn't make up for being a mediocre scientist and, apparently, a smarmy creep. 

Rodney shoved his feet into his shoes at Coyne's front door before letting himself out. It was hot, like every night in Nevada, but at least the temperature had gone down from blistering to only mildly suffocating since sundown. Rodney checked his watch; ten o'clock. He could head back to work, but his stomach was rumbling and he was bone-tired after twenty-four straight hours in he lab followed by semi-decent sex with Coyne. The last thing Rodney needed was to be found passed out on his keyboard again -- that sort of thing did nothing to reinforce his reputation as iron-fisted ruler of the labs, never mind that last time the impression of the keys had remained on Rodney's face for hours after he'd been shaken awake.

Figuring he could use a little quality time with his cat and a microwave dinner, Rodney cranked up the air conditioning in his car and headed toward his apartment. Bizarre late-night talk radio kept him company on the drive, call-ins about UFO's washing over him and drowning out any niggling thoughts he might have had about how extremely unsatisfying the last couple of hours had been. They should have been satisfying; Rodney ought to have been feeling relaxed and spent, ready to go home and pass out content and well-fucked. Instead, without knowing why, Rodney hated the prospect of going home. He wasn't the type to cruise men in bars, but as he steered his car home, he was tempted. It wouldn't go well; he would end up going home alone to hang out with his cat either way. 

But there was something--some unreachable, unattainable, unnameable thing--stuck in the back of Rodney's brain, that told him none of this was enough.

*

John had a lot of stuff in storage from before he got married. He found a shoebox full of letters in the space he'd rented and hadn't bothered to visit in five years. "M.R. McKay" was written at the top left of every envelope, addressed to John in slanted and cramped handwriting.

John sat on the concrete floor and read them. Even the last one was there, and it still packed the same punch, even after all the time that had passed since the first time John read it. He tried to remember if he'd ever saved Nancy's letters and if he had, where he had put them.

*

John hit California to clear his head, or so he told himself. His grandmother's house had been sold long ago, so he got a hotel room for a week and decided he was on vacation. He surfed for three days, drank too much at night alone in his hotel room, and found himself in front of an apartment building whose address he hadn't written out in almost six years. Apartment 2B had the name "Garretty" next to it now.

"Of course," John murmured to himself, just before being jostled aside by a blond girl with groceries in hand. She gave him a look before letting herself into the building with a key, and he figured he should get out of there before she assumed he was a stalker and called the cops.

He didn't know why he'd come to California, so he left early and a month later he was in Germany.

John was taking a short leave in Stuttgart in December, strolling down one of those impossibly pretty streets paved in stone on a slightly cloudy, bitingly cold day when he heard this voice. 

"To hell with Perl and  fuck Reines. Leptons, ha! Big deal! Who decides these things? I'd like to write a strongly worded letter of complaint."

It was a pretty empty street, and the voice was bouncing maybe from around a corner somewhere. John was frozen in the middle of the walkway, listening to someone responding in a calmer tone, "That would be the Nobel Committee, McKay. I'm sure they await your letter with baited breath."

John looked around wildly, desperate to find the source of that conversation. A teenager crossed the street a few yards in front of him, a couple of women exited a shop. Then, just as he was about to question his own mental stability and head back to the hotel, the ranting had started up again and was clearer, as two men appeared from a narrow side street to John's right.

"I don't delude myself," the ranter, and yeah that was  Dr. Rodney McKay , kept on ranting, oblivious to John standing three feet away from him. Rodney's friend snorted. "Okay, I don't delude myself  about this . I know they won't read any letter I choose to send them. Which is why I won't bother. I have more important things to do, anyway."

They had paused, the man leaning against the wall of a bakery while Rodney talked and used his hands to illustrate--waving off the Nobel Committee like a mosquito near his face. Now the other man pushed off the wall and clapped Rodney on the back, leaving his hand there for a second before moving it up to grip the back of Rodney's neck. John's own hands itched, his throat closing over the words wanting out--  Rodney! McKay! Hey, wait a second-- and Rodney and the other man were walking away. 

Rodney's back was so much broader now, but his ass was still worthy of poetry. His hair was darker, no longer curly but instead cut short and a little bit thinner than it had once been. John was pretty sure of these things, though he hadn't laid eyes on the man in years and had never thought to take a picture in all that time before. He didn't call out; just watched them go and felt the familiar burn of disappointment in his belly.

*

Oh, how Rodney  hated Christmas. The music was grating, the crowds suffocating, and the false cheer and emphasis on  togetherness triggered his gag reflex. He had hoped that being in Germany over the holidays would save him from the brutally boring and pointless tedium of office parties. Instead, he had been forced to attend an event thrown by some big-wig from Heidelberg. It was exactly the same as the excruciating soiree that would be going on in the labs in Nevada, only most of the people there were speaking German, a language Rodney didn't understand enough to participate in conversation. He considered this a blessing, and kept close to the wall with his plate in hand. 

There were certainly an awful lot of couples there, and some of them had even brought their children. It wasn't that Rodney disliked kids, necessarily, he just didn't get them. Case in point, the little blond child with the bowl-cut currently standing uncomfortably close, one hand clutching the bottom hem of Rodney's jacket.

"Oh." Rodney stared down at the little creature, which could have been a boy or a girl with that hair, dressed in reindeer pajamas. "Er...Yes?"

The child stared steadily up at him in silence, tugging a little on Rodney's jacket.

"What do you want?" Rodney demanded, gesturing with the hand not holding a plate half-full of buffet table fare. The child said something in German. Rodney caught two words he recognized: Mother and Bathroom. "Oh," Rodney said, looking around for someone who could get him out of this. "I don't--"

The child's lips started to tremble, its big blue eyes filling up and shining with tears. Rodney started to panic.

"Wait," he said, finding a table to drop his plate. The kid didn't let go of his jacket, simply hanging on and following Rodney. He ended up walking around like that for a bit, towing a tiny person behind him while he asked around in broken German and increasingly frustrated English. He supposed the nice thing to do would be to hold the kid's hand but he wasn't willing to risk catching TB or dysentery or whatever germs children carried in their sticky little palms. Anyway, it -- he did feel bad thinking of a child as "it" but asking for a name had gotten him nowhere -- seemed content to be pulled around the party.

Just when he was about to give up, give in and show the poor little urchin to the restroom -- he figured he would deal with finding a mother-type person to help with the mechanics when he got there -- a blonde woman with curly hair and blue eyes that matched the child's swooped out of nowhere and scooped it into her arms. She gave Rodney a glare, as though he had been attempting to abscond with the brat, which was a far cry from the thanks he expected. "Listen lady," he snapped, knowing she had no idea what he was saying, "I'm not the neglectful parent here, so--"

But the woman just kept up her glare and turned away, carrying he child with her. It waved over her shoulder with a little smile and Rodney waved back before going in search of the coat room. He needed to get out of there. 

While he waited for the hotel car service, Rodney spotted the mother and child getting into a car with a man who must have been the father. The mother was pretty, with a heart-shaped face that looked kind without the glare, and the father was tall and skinny, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a silly-looking hat on his head. Rodney thought suddenly -- and for no reason -- of the photo Jeannie had sent him over a year ago. She was in a white dress, standing next to the guy she married. Rodney kept it tucked in his high school physics textbook, the one Jeannie had doodled in when she was small. He rarely thought about it, or his sister, these days. Last he'd heard she was teaching at a second-tier university near Toronto, the very same school where her  English professor husband taught.

Rodney still thought she was wasting her life, and had told her as much the last time she called, a week before her wedding. Jeannie had cried, the sounds of her sobs becoming choked-off sounds of anger as she tried to speak through them saying, "Because your life's so great, Meredith. You're  alone ."

"I'm not alone," Rodney had snapped. "There are thirty people on the other side of my office door and they never leave me alone."

Jeannie had laughed, bitter, and said, "One day you'll be too old to work, or you'll be too overworked and unhealthy to ever get old. And then you'll die, alone , with no one to miss you but your cat."

Then Rodney had said some things he didn't entirely remember, but they were things that lead to Jeannie screaming at him to "Fuck  off , Mer!" and promising to never speak to him again.

So far she'd kept her promise, and Rodney wasn't about to help her break it. The car finally arrived and Rodney got in, already telling the driver to crank up the heat, didn't he know it was freezing? On the ride back to his hotel, Rodney ignored the hundreds of decorated trees, the thousands of twinkling lights, and thought of nothing but visiting the labs at Heidelberg, and how he planned to tell off their dean of science the next day.

III. I Was Always Set to Self-Destruct

2004

If he could have hit the fast-forward button on his life from ages twenty-six through thirty-six, John would have done it gladly. Let his marriage, his divorce, the aimless years before Afghanistan, Mitch and Dex, Holland and the black mark, just let it all speed by at fifty times normal speed, at a thousand frames per second. He would do that, and come to a screeching halt at McMurdo where in the middle of the endless day and snow as far as his eye could see, John finally felt free. He was mainly flying glorified milk runs, but he was flying every day. He ferried people back and forth from the base to the research outpost; carried supplies from one place to another; he wasn't flying anywhere special or doing anything terribly heroic these days. But he was flying, and the sky never ended, and he was happy with that.

He really did kind of like it here.

*

Rodney probably could have done with some slowing down. If he had a minute to sit down, close his eyes and actually wonder how the hell he jumped from NORAD to Area 51 to Cheyenne to Siberia to Antarctica, he might be able to figure out how he had gotten to any one of those places. But he was moving, moving, always moving and figuring and snapping his fingers; beating his brains out for the next solution or discovery. He didn't remember a single plane ride from the last ten years, though he must have taken hundreds of them. 

He didn't mind Antarctica; it wasn't all that different from being stuck in Siberia and anyway, he sort of had friends here. Carter was never around to glare accusations at the back of his head, O'Neill mostly ignored him, and Jackson hardly counted. He got along well with Beckett, and had plenty of underlings to poke and prod when the mood struck. He might never get a Nobel, thanks to the stack of paperwork he'd practically signed in blood, rescinding any right to publish the brilliant discoveries he made with SGC. Whatever, lost city of the Ancients; zero point energy;  wormhole travel . Rodney would never admit it to anyone but it was so cool he didn't care if he ever published. If he died tinkering with Ancient technology in some metal-walled lab buried under a mountain, Rodney figured he'd die as happy as he possibly could be.

Still, though. He might have liked to slow it down.  Then again, he thought as Carson's rogue drone shot up and out of the outpost,  fast is good too.

*

"Major Sheppard! Is in the chair!  You have to come, quickly! "

All Rodney got from Carson's panicked outburst was Major; Chair; and Quickly. So when he skidded to a halt in front of the chair and saw John Sheppard in it, his entire body snapped straight and he had to catch his breath before he said, "Major, think about where we are in the solar system."

A map of the universe unfurled over their heads and John breathed, "Did I do that?"

Rodney thought,  You did that. Of  course you did, of course it's  you.

John pulled his gaze away from the glowing map over his head and took in the crowd around him. Rodney felt it, the moment John noticed him, placed him in his memory. His face barely changed, but his eyes stuttered over Rodney's face, went wide for a split second before he looked away from all of them to where his hands rested on the arms of the chair.

Later, Rodney stormed to the lift that would take him up and out of the facility. He cut a swath through the crowd of scientists waiting for the elevator, the absolute fury on his face parting them like the red sea. Rage boiled under his skin. Elizabeth had told him she offered Sheppard a place on the expedition and that Sheppard had told her he had to  think about it . Of all the insulting things he had once thought about John Sheppard, that the man was an idiot had never been one of them. Heartless, manipulative, dishonest, sure. But not  stupid . It was bad enough that he was being forced to think about all of this; he had more important things to worry about than the jerk who broke up with him in a letter fifteen years ago. But for said jerk to be so offensively idiotic was adding insult to injury.

Rodney was catching a ride out of Antarctica and heading back to Colorado like everyone else. From what Elizabeth had told him, Sheppard would be heading out with them as well, just in case the fool decided he'd like to take this chance of a lifetime. Rodney resolved that should Sheppard say no, he would find him and punch him right in the face.

*

Things kept moving at break-neck pace, and Rodney wouldn't have been able to find the time to knock Sheppard's lights out even if he'd wanted to. Either way it didn't matter, because suddenly it was the day they were leaving and there was Sheppard, favoring Colonel Sumner with a fake grin in the middle of the gateroom. Rodney was busy grinding his teeth, holding down the urge to do something horrifically unmanly like flutter over the ZPM just one more time or maybe faint. 

"I've never been more excited in my life," he told Elizabeth, holding his hands tightly together behind his back to keep from jumping up and down when he said it. He wondered what Elizabeth would say if he also told her he was freaking out because his ex was their new Ancient-gene-carrying friend with the gun over there and he wasn't sure if said ex (if he could really even call Sheppard an ex-anything) even remembered that they had shared a month of sexcapades fifteen years ago.

This was Elizabeth, so she would probably give him a very calm, measured look, tell him to pull it together and be professional, and let him know he could talk to her about any concerns he might have. Later. When they weren't preparing to travel to another galaxy.

Elizabeth remained unaware of Rodney's inner freak out, which was just as well since she had that stirring speech to worry about. The wormhole locked, and Rodney stepped through the blue and into the unknown trying to remember if he turned off the coffee pot at his place, and whether Sheppard's ears had been that pointy when they were younger. 

*

At some point, once the city did its rising thing, the Athosians settled in and John explained to Elizabeth why he returned from the Wraith hive with Teyla but without Sumner, John started to feel like maybe he needed a second to regroup before he shook apart in the middle of Atlantis' gateroom. He found himself on one of the hundreds of balconies jutting out from the sides of the city's towers, leaning with his elbows against the cold metal and staring out over the endless ocean wondering how he got himself into this mess.

A throat cleared behind him. John turned and tried not too sigh too loudly. When he had first seen Rodney in Antarctica, all orange fleece and stiff shoulders, he had known there would be an awkward confrontation. But things like ending up under the ocean, waking a race of life-sucking aliens and having to shoot his CO had delayed things a little. 

John figured he couldn't put this off for much longer so he inclined his head and said, "Dr. McKay."

"Uh," Rodney said intelligently. "I mean, hey. I thought this one would be empty. Sorry, I'll--"

"No," John pushed off the railing. "I'll go, it's cool."

"Stop!" Rodney shouted, bringing him up short. He held up both his hands, stepping sideways to keep John from passing him as planned. "Wait. I have something I need to say to you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. And I apologize if it's bad timing, considering what you had to do today which, wow did today suck. But I feel that if we're to have any semblance of a working relationship, I need to make it clear that I think you're a total jackass."

John barked a strangled, shocked laugh and opened his mouth to reply but Rodney shook his head, snapped his fingers, and interrupted. "No, no. Quiet. I meant to say that since the jackass things you did happened what, fifteen years ago--holy crap, we're old. Anyway, fifteen years ago. So. I'm willing to look past them. In order to be professional."

"That's...nice?" John shrugged. "Only I remember you being the jackass. Either way--"

"What do you  mean I was a jackass?" Rodney pointed a finger in John's face. "You're the one who never--" He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, waving the finger in the air. "No! I'm not getting into this with you! I'm over this, I'll have you know. I've  been over it. Way, way over it!"

"Yeah, I figured since you met 'the one' and all," John said, not a little bitter. And seriously, he hadn't thought about Rodney and his girl with the "great tits" in  years , but now that he was thinking about it he was pissed off all over again.

"Right! So over--Wait, what?"

John sighed, turning away from Rodney who, for all he didn't look the same, looked at that moment an awful lot like the kid he was the first time John met him. He still had those sharp blue eyes, and the mobile, slanty mouth that shouldn't be sexy at all but it  was . John needed to get a grip. "The letter, McKay. You sent me that letter, you  broke up with me because you met some girl and you were all set to marry her--"

"I never met any girl, you idiot!" Rodney shouted, followed by the sound of his hands against his legs. John didn't turn around to watch the emphatic gesturing. He leaned back over the balcony railing again, resuming his gazing. He felt more than saw Rodney come over to stand beside him. "I made that up because you were being a jerk, and I was alone in California. I was--you know."

"A jackass?"

" Lonely , and also? Fuck you. You hardly wrote me at all--"

"I was a little busy!"

"--and when you did it was all 'I had a turkey sandwich for lunch, it was kind of dry' and incomprehensible ramblings about various aircraft, and all this single-sentence bullshit. What was I supposed to think? You never indicated that I--Well. That I was anything other than this obligation you were keeping."

John straightened, turning to face Rodney. He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, chin held a little high, eyes looking somewhere in the distance and not at John. "Okay," John said, slowly, putting up his hands in a placating gesture. "Look. I thought you would like hearing about the planes. I just thought I was telling you the stuff I wished I could tell you about in person. I couldn't get...personal. I technically can't be having this conversation with you right now."

"Right. It's risky. Hm." Rodney still didn't look over at him, but his posture had relaxed a little. "You got mad at me for the fake-girlfriend-letter thing."

"Yeah well, excuse me if it felt like rubbing salt into an open wound. You weren't a girl. If you had been a girl, my life would have been a lot easier. I...I missed you, I guess. I was freaking out, I was twenty-three. I was pissed at you for joking about something that wasn't ever going to be true."

"And what do I say to that? Sorry for not possessing a vagina?" Now Rodney was looking at him, his eyebrows all scrunched up, mouth a slant of annoyance. "It's not like I have a choice about that."

John didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Instead he stood there, staring at Rodney while his brain played catch-up. "So," he said, "You didn't marry some girl you met at CalTech?"

"No!"

"Huh. I did."

"You? Married a woman?"

"Yep."

"But," Rodney jerked back, clearly confused. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "But John, you're  gay ."

John looked at Rodney's earnest face and thought  Truer words and all that, and cracked up. He clutched the railing, holding himself up when his legs threatened to give out, and let the hysterics flow because  god , he was in another galaxy with his post-college summer fling, discussing his sexuality on an alien planet. It was hilarious, too funny, too real and utterly ridiculous.

"I know that, Rodney," John managed, still completely losing it, which seemed to both amuse and befuddle Rodney. 

"Well then why'd you go and get married?" 

"I don't know!" John replied, completely serious, and then he was off and laughing again. Rodney had crossed his arms once more and was glaring at him with reproach, but it was crumbling fast; his lips twitched. He threw up his hands then let them drop to his side, considering John with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"That's just--It's not funny, it's--" Rodney snorted, covered his mouth as he choked on something suspiciously close to a giggle. "That's just so  typical ."

And then they were both laughing, John agreeing "I know! I completely fucked up, and I have no idea-- ha ha \--no idea why!--And we're astronauts, Rodney--" He snorted, which was embarrassing and set them both off laughing even harder while John tried to gasp out things like, "I told you Back to the Future wasn't that far-fetched--" Rodney tried to protest, but he couldn't stop laughing, "--I mean, space vampires--" until they were slumped over on their knees, hands hooked over rungs on the balcony rail, gasping to catch their breath. Rodney let go of the railing, letting himself fall down to sit on the floor. John did the same, letting the cool metal bars dig into his back and hold him up.

"I guess none of it matters," John said, still trying to get his breathing under control. "We're somewhere else, now."

"We're very much 'somewhere else'," Rodney agreed. "As far as tense reunions go, by the way, that one ranks in my top three."

John nodded, "Same. Pretty sure the whole ranking system is gonna be blown out of the water now, though."

Rodney shuddered. "Wraith."

"Yeah," John agreed.

They sat in silence, sobered and back in the present, where they were actually in danger and had responsibilities, things to do. For example, John was supposed to be choosing a team. John took a deep breath and nudged Rodney's leg with his foot.

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to be on my team," he said conversationally. "If you don't want to, what with the whole jackass thing, that's fine." 

"I--Really?"

"Yeah. Sure, why not?"

Rodney blinked. "Well, it's just that I don't know if I  can . I'm the head of the science department; I'm very busy. And, obviously, very important."

John nodded and just barely managed not to roll his eyes, "Yeah. I know. I get that. It's just...I really want you on my team. So maybe you could think about it."

"Um," Rodney nodded, "Okay. Yes. I mean, yes I'll think about it."

"Great," John said, smiling. It was a real smile, the good kind, the kind he didn't use that much. Rodney smiled back and that one was real too, the good kind, the one John still remembered, which was crazy.

Rodney said, "Good," then suggested they go grab some champagne before it was all gone. John agreed. He needed to talk to Teyla and Ford, anyway.

IV. Epilogue - From Our Chest to Chest and Feet to Feet 

2008

John shifted in bed, trying to find a position that didn't put too much pressure on his hip. The leg that had been pinned by a fallen beam under Michael's compound was healing well, but the bruising and strain on that hip was lingering and sending twinges up his back. He could get up for the little orange bottle full of the good pain killers Keller had given him, but they were all the way across the room on his desk and they weren't worth the movement it would take to get them. 

A few minutes and several changes in position later, the sound of the door chime was a welcome one. John figured it was probably Ronon, come to tease him about getting soft while he rested up; he thought 'open' at the door and opened his mouth to ask for a little assistance with the happy-pill retrieval, but stopped when he saw that it was Rodney looking flushed and nervous in the hall.

"Oh. Hey, Rodney."

"Hey." Rodney sort of hovered for a moment before coming fully into the room. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a mad Wraith scientist's compound fell on me," John replied attempting a smile. He set his book aside and leaned back against his pillows.

"Well, all things considered, I guess you're right on track," Rodney said, rambling as usual but in the slightly freaked out way that meant something was bugging him and he didn't want to admit it. "But you're feeling better, right? Keller  did actually approve your discharge, didn't she? You didn't sneak out again, did you?" Rodney fidgeted, coming a little closer to the bed to stare nervously at John, probably to look for signs of internal bleeding or other distress.

John grinned, then winced when the movement caused the bruises along one side of his face to twinge. "I'm good, I promise. It's been a couple of weeks, so I'm mostly sore," he said, and it was true even if he mentally replaced sore with 'miserable' and 'sick and tired of laying around'. Rodney looked unconvinced and worried, fidgeting with his hands and gnawing at his lower lip. "Rodney?"

Rodney snapped to attention, probably just realizing John had been speaking. "What? Sorry. What?"

"I said," John cleared his throat, bracing himself to say the things he knew needed to be said. "I said I'm glad you're here. I kind of wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." Rodney nodded, "That's good. I wanted to talk to you. Also. Um. As well."

John motioned to the bed. "Pull up some mattress."

Rodney sat gingerly on the edge of the tiny bed, careful not to jostle anything as he did. John watched his shoulders stiffen then roll before relaxing, his hands knotting in his lap.

"Okay," Rodney said. "You go first."

"Oh." John cringed inwardly. He had been hoping Rodney would want to talk first. "Okay. Uh. Well, I guess I just wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"Yeah. You know, because you--or, the other you--saved me. I mean, you saved everyone--again--but specifically, you saved me." John bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't saying this right.

"Right," Rodney said. "But that wasn't really me. I'm still here, and not, uh, old. Or married to Keller."

"I know that." John shifted a little, tilting his head back against his pillows and gazing up at the ceiling. He sucked at this whole feelings thing, and getting the words out was about as easy as chewing on broken glass. "It's just, I figured, if that version of you was willing to do that--give up pretty much his whole life--then, you know. That's still you. And it was a big deal, it's more than anyone could expect someone else to do for them. So thanks."

"Well." Rodney unfolded his hands and huffed, "I hate to say something so pedestrian as the word 'duh' so I'll settle for calling you an idiot. Idiot! Obviously!" 

"What?" John straightened up as much as a person who had recently been buried under several tons of rubble could. 

"Obviously I had to fix it. I wouldn't just let you--let you go. I wouldn't leave you to some random point in space and time, completely by yourself. I wouldn't just--just give up on you. You're...you know.  You . And..." Rodney sucked in a breath. "And I figure if I was supposed to wait fifteen years to run into you again and, um. That worked out well, right? Right. Then if I have to, I'll do it again. Only longer and with more work. It's worth it, to me. So, there."

John was frozen for a second, bowled over. He smiled, his face hurting but not enough to stop. "Wow. That's...thanks."

"You're my best friend," Rodney said, and it was honest and matter-of-fact. He ducked his head to catch John's eyes. "I figured you knew that."

"I know that." John stopped looking at him again, and started picking at invisible lint on his bedspread. "You're my best friend, too. I just didn't think--"

"Sheppard.  John " Rodney sounded almost like he did whenever John frustrated him by failing to catch on to something which, to Rodney, was obvious.

"Um," John looked up. "Yeah?"

Rodney appeared to contemplate his next move, never taking his eyes off John's face, but with that look that meant he was calculating odds and measuring outcomes. He nodded once then leaned forward very carefully, so as not to press on anything sore, and fitted his mouth over John's. 

John responded so quickly it was almost instantaneous. His lips parted under Rodney's and his hand came up to cup the back of Rodney's head. John didn't know if it felt the same as it had before, because for once he couldn't remember. It felt amazing, terrifying, ridiculous, and  so good . Rodney pulled back, licking his lips. John gave him a second before reaching up to pull him back down to kiss him again because  god, finally . 

They broke apart, and Rodney made a small, reluctant sound. John quirked a smile up at him--he had slid down, somehow, and was completely horizontal now. And oh, hey, Rodney was kind of on top of him. 

"Am I hurting you?"

"Not enough that you need to move right this second," John replied, happy to ignore every aching sore spot. "So it's been what, twenty years since we did that?"

"Nineteen. Don't make us older than we are."

"We're not old, Rodney."

"That's true,  we are not old. You, being almost a year older than I am, are indeed old. I am still young and fresh. The world is my oyster. So are we good now? Or do I have to put this in writing for you? I know you're not unintelligent, but lately-- Oh ." John pressed his mouth hot and wet in the place below Rodney's adam's apple, just above the collar of his shirt. "Okay. You remember that spot, that's--Impressive. Oh--"

"Yes, Rodney," John said, sing-song, looking nineteen years younger even with the bruising, "I remember how to shut you up."

Rodney opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by John, tugging him down and kissing the words right off his tongue.

The End.

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